take the gun, count to three
by WingedWolf121
Summary: Ward is 007. Fitz is a kidnapped scientist. There's a fancy party. Things escalate rather drastically. Includes seductions, fightfights, high speed chases, bombs, expensive suits, and possibly even love. Grant Ward/Leo Fitz, Bobbi Morse/Lance Hunter, Antoine Triplett/Raina, Jemma Simmons/Skye, Melinda May/Victoria Hand
1. Chapter 1

**Agent Grant Ward is the best her majesty's secret service has to offer. So when M sends him out to investigate the suspicious Daniel Whitehall, he expects nothing more than a lukewarm leftover from the cold war and the chance to kick a few criminals in the face. But Whitehall hasn't just been making himself a castle fortress—he's been recruiting scientists. And one of them might be even grumpier than Ward.**

 **Feat 007!Ward, Melinda May as M, Skye as the charming Moneypenny, Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons as scientists who most certainly did not sign up for this, Whitehall as the same psychopath he's always been but with some Bondian twists, and more!**

 **A/N: Have you ever wondered what happens if you spend your entire Christmas break watching Bond movies? Worry no more, this fic is the answer.**

"Did you ever think our lives would turn out this way?"

"Fitz…"

"No, really." Fitz put his chin in his hand and stared out the windows. The rain lashed against the laboratory windows. If he pressed his nose to the cool glass, he could see the torrent crashing into the gully below them. The rocks were black and shone in the fluorescent lights, the only illumination on the whole of the mountain. "When we were at Cambridge together, getting our graduate degrees, did you think we'd end up here?"

"Well, no." Simmons put her test tube down. "I must admit, being captives in South Ossetia was _not_ what I anticipated."

"Research opportunity." Fitz said gloomily. "Go to the private sector, the info session said. No longer will you be reliant on precarious government funds. Pick your own working hours. Make millions, contribute to the world."

" _Fitz_." Simmons said. She glanced across the laboratory. They were the only two there. "Be careful."

"What's he going to do to me, lock me in a castle?"

"Don't be so maudlin." Simmons scolded. She held out a test tube. "Here, put this under a microscope, I extracted it from one of the samples Bakshi brought in. I think it might be explosive."

"More bombs. Great." Fitz muttered.

"Fitz." Simmons hissed. She grabbed his arm. They could hear footsteps outside the laboratory door. Both waiting. Simmons' hands were tight fists where she'd shoved them in her lab coat pockets. The footsteps came to a sharp halt, then retreated. It was no more than the standard late night patrol.

"Typical." Fitz said. "Bloody typical."

"Just look at the sample." Simmons said wearily. "We need to show him something for the month's work, and it's not as though building bombs is inflicting any _new_ horrors on the world."

Fitz glared at the microscope, and the innocuous spread of black rock on the slide beneath it. "We could tell him to sod off."

"We would die." Simmons took a deep breath. "Fitz, please. I don't know who he'd kill first and I really don't want to see you shot, and I'd like to think you feel the same way."

"Of course I don't want to see anyone shoot you." Fitz pulled his stool over to the sample. "Where's my pen, I want to write down notes."

"Right here." Simmons was already pushing it across the counter.

"I'd kill him, for the record." Fitz added. "If he tried to kill you. I don't care if he's got"

"a complex full of guards, machine guns, resources and rich friends?"

"Pretty much, yeah." Fitz began to scribble down notes.

Simmons leaned her chin on his shoulder. "Who knows, Fitz. Maybe today is the day that a knight in shining armor comes around to sweep us up and get us out of here."

Fitz snorted. "Jemma, please."

"Maybe he'll be tall, dark, and handsome."

"Maybe Mr. Whitehall will win the Nobel Peace Prize."

Simmons shoved his shoulder. Fitz snickered and kept jotting down notes.

* * *

It was pouring rain in London, and that was enough to put 007 in a bad mood. He hurried up the narrow steps to the office with a scowl on his face and water dripping off the hem of his coat, well aware that he was tramping mud on the carpet.

"Morning Ward." Skye leaned across the desk when she saw him, putting her chin in her hands.

Ward grunted at her as he hung up his coat and hat. Skye giggled. "What?"

"Did you have a nice night on Saturday?" Skye asked. She kicked back her chair and put her feet on the desk. Skye was supposed to be a temporary secretary, and she'd held onto the job by no means Ward could understand. He suspected it had something to do with her either her clinging sweaters or the fact that she could withstand even their top agent's most deadly stare.

That stare, for the record, belonged to Ward, and it had once made a Russian general cry.

"It was great." Ward said. He leaned a hip against the desk. "I blew up a plane."

"I thought you weren't supposed to be working Saturdays anymore?" Skye asked. She tapped her toes together. Skye was wearing pink heels, in flagrant disrespect to the M16 dress code. "After that time you went out to that one bar and got into that fight with the officer who _totally_ deserved it."

"He did deserve it."

"Ward you threatened to sell him to a Chinese triad."

"Did I sell a police officer to a Chinese triad?"

"Not yet." Skye tossed her hair back. "Aren't you going to ask what I did on Saturday night?"

"No."

"I went out and had _way_ too many shots, woke up with a new tattoo, and still no one proposed to me." Skye crossed her legs, so her skirt slid up her thigh. "Want to see the tattoo?"

Ward's eyebrow rose. "Is it in a place that needs double-o clearance to investigate?"

"It's in a place that needs a double-o salary for discreet removal." Skye replied. "And have I mentioned that you've always been my _favorite_ agent?"

"I bet you say that too all the guys in suits."

"Only the ones with empty lives." The phone at Skye's elbow rang. She leaned over and picked it up. "M will see you now."

"Thanks." Ward nodded to her. "Think it'll be good news?"

"You and I have different definitions of good, but I bet you'll end up getting to shoot somebody."

"That's all I ever ask." Ward stepped past Skye, dodging her attempt to whack his calf with a heel. It was also possible that M kept Skye around as a way to test agent reflexes. If so, Ward had a few bruises that might relegate him to a desk job in Q-branch.

He pushed open the door and went into M's office. It was a room more conservative than the power of the operative who worked there. The walls were smooth wood, and the tall windows looked out over London. Every panel of glass was bulletproof, and every panel of wood concealed some sort of switch.

Like the room, the woman who sat behind the desk was full of secrets. She indicated for Ward to sit. He did so, in a leather chair discreetly bolted to the floor. M had a single file on her desk, her hands folded across it. It was plain manila, marked only with TOP SECRET in bright red and 007 in conservative blue.

"I have your next assignment." M said. M could convey more doom in those five words than most agents could in a manifesto. It was rumored that every file on her tenure as a field agent was entirely redacted, and that she was single handedly responsible for the elimination of no less than forty two former UN officials. Ward thought she was a handsome woman, and was very glad she was on their side. "What do you know about archeology?"

That was what he loved about his job. Always the surprises. "Nothing, ma'am."

"Wonderful." M pushed the file across the desk. Ward opened it, half expecting to see a jewel thief. It was a middle aged man with hair that was pale blonde fading to white, and round glasses. "Daniel Whitehall."

"I don't know him." Ward said.

"You shouldn't. He's one of the Eastern restorationist crowd. Very rich, hobbies in buying medieval properties to restore them and funding digs in random but unnervingly fruitful sites. Famous for his private collection and his generous hand in donations."

Ward's brow furrowed. "And…we care?"

M stared at him. Ward began to read the file. "Pay attention. Some of this was too sensitive to write down."

"Yes ma'am."

"Whitehall just restored a fortress on Mount Khalatsa. Reports say it cost over a billion pounds sterling." M said the words flatly.

This time, Ward restrained his question about why they cared.

"The British Museum finds this figure grossly inflated." M said.

"You asked?" Ward inquired.

"Whitehall is American. The CIA won't release his record to us." M's lips tightened. So much for international cooperation. "I suspect equally generous contributions to Congress. And that's off-record, 007."

"Yes ma'am." Ward nodded. "What the Americans do is none of our business."

"Precisely." M's eyes narrowed. "But in the last five years, Whitehall has bought half the Greater Caucus Mountains." Ward's eyebrows raised. "You don't need to buy a mountain range to fix up a few castles."

"Do I take him out?"

"Generous contributions to Congress say that would be received poorly across the waters." M said.

"Am I arranging an accident?"

"We can't kill a man on suspicion." M said. Ward's eyebrows rose just a tad. "But our agent in South Ossetia says that Whitehall is dangerous."

"I didn't think we had someone in South Ossetia." Ward commented.

"We have W."

"Who's W?" That wasn't even a section, so far as Ward knew.

M stared at him. Ward mentally redacted the question. "Anyway. The agent is sure that Whitehall has secrets, and suggests the potential for outright lunacy. I don't plan to wait around until this deranged billionaire snaps." Ward could certainly concur with that logic. He was less sure of what M wanted _him_ to do about Whitehall's potential insanity. "Whitehall is throwing a _gala_ one week from today in his fortress on Mount Khalatsa, purportedly to celebrate his successful restoration."

"He spent a billion pounds on this and decides to party afterward?"

"W also found it strange." M nodded to his file. "You'll be posing as a representative from the British Museum."

Ward blinked. "A what?"

"A curator. Interested in purchasing from the collection. I assure you, no one there will look twice at you, especially as they're all aware that the museum can't afford Whitehall's prices." M's lips twisted up.

It looked like he was going to spend the next week memorizing obscure facts about the British Museum. Wonderful. "If I judge him dangerous—"

"You will report back to me." M cut him off.

"Ma'am, I'm a double-o." Ward said. "Why am I on this mission, if we don't want Whitehall dead?"

"Because you're the only agent we have with decent South Ossetian contacts." M said grimly. "And you haven't seen the guest list. This party has metal detectors." Ward's ears pricked up. "These are dangerous people on hostile ground, we damn well have to send a double-o."

 _That_ sounded more interesting. Ward bent in head in silent apology.

"Q branch will outfit you. And one last thing, 007—the whole region is still teeming with unstable separatist groups. Neither the Russian nor Georgian governments would appreciate M16 meddling."

Ward paused. "Isn't that exactly what we're doing, ma'am?"

"They don't need to know that." M said. She waved him out. Ward left. Skye had the phone to ear, and looked to be actually working. She stopped when she saw Ward.

"Looks like I might get to shoot someone." Ward said. He tipped his hat to her and went back out into the rain.

* * *

Q Branch was several floors beneath M's office, far enough down that any explosions wouldn't rattle her teacups. Ward rode down in an elevator, watching through the glass as each floor started to look more and more like a clinic. When he finally stepped into the subterranean chambers, even the air felt sterile.

"Welcome, 007." There was an agent waiting to meet him at the door.

"Agent Coulson." Ward bowed his head respectfully. M preferred to use Coulson mostly for internal matters these days, but he had a certain reputation. He'd been 008 since probably before Ward was born. "I didn't know you were part of Q, sir."

"I'm not. This is a special occasion." Coulson began to walk. Ward fell into step beside him. They passed one agent fiddling with dials for a test chamber. There was another agent inside wearing a test suit. Ward watched with idle curiosity as the interior of the chamber burst into flames. When they burned out, the agent in the suit took off her headgear and shook her head, saying something into a mike that made the other agent swear. There was also an agent staring down the barrel of a gun talking to themselves, and another hunched over a bunch of test tubes sniffing differently colored vapors.

Ward deeply disliked coming down to Q branch. He would rather have had a knife, a gun, and a cyanide pill.

"Standard Beretta. No ballistics, no numbers." Coulson handed him the gun. Ward took it and weighed it in his hand. It was a bit lighter than his personal handgun, but still beautifully balanced, and perfectly untraceable.

"Thank you sir."

"You also get these." Coulson walked over to a table and held up a pair of glasses. They were wide rimmed, dark brown. Not the usual raptor sunglasses, which were equipped with night-vision and heat vision. They were much nerdier. Ward mentally sighed. "They have X-ray and photo capability. The knob on the top right does X-ray, the left takes a picture. Adjust them for resolution."

"I have excellent vision, sir." _And I know how to break into a safe._

"I'm sure M told you that we're not technically supposed to be in South Ossetia." Coulson said. "With these glasses you can simply photograph the contents of safes, crates, whatever you feel you need. They can't see through walls, but they can get damn close. You take nothing, you leave no fingerprints, and you don't break, damage, blow up, or injure anything or anyone." Coulson smiled blandly, as if they specified that for every agent.

"Yes sir." Ward said.

"Oh, and not that you'll need it, but here. Standard transmitter for tracking and rescue purposes. Q now recommends fitting into the toe of your shoe, as certain agencies now search the heel." Coulson passed him a tiny circular disk.

"If it's in the toe, how am I supposed to discreetly activate it for a rescue?"

"That's what I said." Coulson shook his head. "Terrible, terrible, idea. I want them to make one shaped like a cufflink."

"But then we'd have to make two, and people find two." Ward turned to the new voice. It was Agent Alphonso Mackenzie, who actually worked in Q. Ward was rather glad to see that someone who knew how these gadgets worked was there. Agent Mackenzie nodded to him. "My qualified recommendation was that agents pack mobiles."

"Where's the fun in that?" Coulson asked.

"The fun comes next." Agent Mackenzie replied. He pressed a button in the wall. "007, may I present to you the crowning glory of the current collection."

Ward watched as the panel slid up. It was a car.

"She's a cherry-red 1962 Chevrolet Corvette." Coulson said. His voice was reverential.

"She has revolving plates outfitted for ten different countries, including Britain, Russia, and the former block. Bullet proof outer shell, and bullet proof glass. Properly bullet proof, not the kind that cracks and sets you up to crash." Mack added. "Buttons on the dashboard will give you access to two machine guns we wired into the headlights, a flamethrower in the undercarriage, and the best satellite gps money can buy."

"And she can fly." Coulson said. Ward honestly couldn't tell if he was joking.

"Cherry red, sir?" He asked instead. "I thought MI6 cars were built for discretion."

"You're going to a fancy party." Coulson said. "You need a beautiful girl with you. Her name is Lola."

"…okay."

"Agent Ward, you should know." Coulson smiled. "If you so much as scratch her paint job, I will kill you."

Ward was absolutely sure he wasn't joking. "Yes sir."

"Goodbye now." Coulson backed away, still smiling.

"He and the car have some sentimental attachments." Agent Mackenzie said. "I had to go right over his head to get permission to work on her." Ward quietly noticed that Agent Mackenzie _also_ thought the car had a gender. "Be careful with her, and not just for Coulson. The driver-seat ejection packs a punch."

"I'll be careful." Ward said. "Anything else?"

"Your tux is being dropped at your flat. It's a Brioni. Solid black, beautiful bow tie, please wear it well. Your passport and invitation will be in the jacket pocket." Agent Mackenzie grinned. "We tailored it specifically to disguise the shoulder holster, so if you wouldn't mind keeping it clean…"

"I'll do my best." Ward said. He nodded to the agent. "Be seeing you."

"Good luck. Think of us in the lab while you're eating caviar and drinking champagne." Agent Mackenzie waved him away. He was a tall man, even taller than Ward, and he had muscles that could probably lift Lola. It made him stick out in a crowd. That, plus his genius intellect, had stuck him in Q branch. Ward sometimes wondered if he would rather have been in the field. If so, he didn't express his discontent to Ward, who only saw him a few times a year anyway.

"Will do." Ward left the lab, glasses in one hand and Beretta in the other.

 **A/N: My first foray into writing for Agents of SHIELD, so commentary always appreciated.**


	2. Chapter 2

Daniel Whitehall's ballroom was ostentatious to the extreme. Ward could feel the money bleeding out of the plush red carpeting under his feet. The wood that paneled the walls was no doubt extinct, and the glittering white gems in the chandelier were no doubt Congo diamonds.

There were two balconies that overlooked the room. The velvet curtains draped around them were ideal for concealing snipers. Ward's eyes slid casually over them, then over the guests who had already arrived. Ward could spot the dangerous ones. They were the ones who wore diamonds, and the ones surrounding them whose arms strained the cut of their tuxedos. Bodyguards, and the people who hired them. Then a smattering of fellow historians, bunched into tight knots and all looking either overwhelmed or elated.

Nobody was armed. Every guest had to walk through a metal detector after handing over their invitation. Ward had been smart enough to leave his Beretta in a secret compartment beneath the seat of the car. A few other guests hadn't been, and had to hand their weapons over to a smiling concierge.

That left only the guns on Whitehall's personal guard. Ward cased them as he entered the room. It was several feet lower than the entrance hall, so the whisper of silk dresses across steps accompanied the ladies as they entered. Ward noticed that in addition to what were clearly guards on the doors to the kitchens and beyond, the doors all locked automatically. A waiter heading back inside with an empty tray had to press a card to a panel in order to fetch more hors d'oeuvres.

Whitehall was either immensely paranoid, or he had something to hide. He'd have to keep an eye on when the shift changed. Ward forced his smile and walked down the steps, casually adjusting his cuffs. Armed guards or no armed guards, the scariest thing about this evening was the fact that he'd had to pass the car keys off to a valet, and they might scratch the paint.

He snagged a glass of champagne off an exquisitely dressed waiter and scanned the room. Whitehall looked exactly like his pictures. Ward's brow wrinkled. He looked _exactly_ like his pictures. There wasn't even a wrinkle to show that his dossier had probably been composed years ago.

Some people had all the best genetics. But the group of laughing people around him showed their age. Most of the young people here were either hired guns or hired staff. The only millionaire by Whitehall who didn't have grey in their hair was a striking woman in a high collared black gown, with red streaks in her dark curls. Ward paused a second to appreciative the view.

He could almost hear his SO telling him not to take so much pleasure in his work.

Anyway. Sidling into that tight knit circle wouldn't be worth the trouble. They were all too close. Besides, the woman smelled married. Ward let his gaze wander to the bar.

Well, hello.

Who said that work couldn't be fun?

* * *

Leopold Fitz might have been a little bit drunk. In his defense, there wasn't much else to do. No one at this party had much interest in talking to him. And the guards were excessively muscular enough to carry him back to bed, no question.

The bar was in the center of the room, a big circle of polished wood right beneath the chandelier. From his stool, Fitz could watch while all sorts of rich and morally depraved persons socialized and flashed their family jewels at each other.

"How does the chandelier work again?" Simmons was even more of a little bit drunk. She was next to him, with both of her elbows on the bar, posing in a way that didn't show off the expensive dress Whitehall bought for her. It was black velvet, and splashed with sequins that shone under the lights.

"I couldn't even begin to tell you." Fitz replied. "There are _so_ many wires. Physics is beautiful."

"It is beautiful." Simmons said. She raised her hand to call the bartender. "Could I have another round, please? Fitz, pony up."

"I don't remember it being my turn." Fitz mumbled. Bloody rude, that was what this whole shindig was. The drinks were all exorbitantly priced and nothing was on the house unless you were Daniel bloody Whitehall. He still reached into his jacket and forked over the cash.

"Physics, Fitz." Simmons propped her hand on her elbow and watched the bartender pour. "Beautiful."

"You look beautiful too." Fitz said.

"You're so sweet." Simmons smiled at him. Fitz patted her shoulder. She giggled and burped a little. "Oh, my."

"Bit less beautiful now."

"Shut up." Simmons wobbled to her feet. "I suppose I ought to go to the loo"

"and sober up a bit?" Fitz finished. "No, you're be fine. Don't leave me here alone."

"Never would." Simmons said. "But I really need to pee." She giggled suddenly. "And someone's been _looking_ at you from across the room."

"You mean other than the snipers on the balcony?"

"Fitz." Jemma said fondly. "None of the snipers care about us."

Bah. She was right. Fitz waved despondently as Jemma disappeared into the crowd, making her way to the women's toilet across the hall. It was absolutely an excessive hall. Nobody needed this much space just to make an impression. He scowled into his drink. It was empty and that was even more monumentally unfair than the fact that the chandelier had two hundred and sixteen diamonds while he had _no_ diamonds.

Someone slid onto the stool next to him. "Hey."

Fitz turned around, perfectly willing and able to tell this fellow to fuck the fuck off, and almost fell off his stool.

"I'll have a vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred. And another round for him." The man looked down at Fitz, a smile playing at the edge of his mouth. Blimey, but he was tall, dark, and handsome. And probably rich and morally reprehensible too, how typical. "Ward. Grant Ward."

"Leopold Fitz." Fitz shook his hand. Ward lingered over the touch, his eyes dark. Fitz tried not to breathe too heavily. "I go by Fitz."

"Fitz." Ward said it slowly, like he was tasting every letter. "I like it. So, _Fitz_. What's the best looking guy in the room doing sitting at the bar alone?"

"I, uh." Fitz took the beer the bartender slid across to him. Ward pressed his fingers to the stem of the martini glass and lifted it up, taking a sip without ever breaking eye contact with Fitz. "Not really my sort of party."

"Mine neither." Ward leaned in, under the pretense of inspecting Fitz's beer. "Heineken? I had you for a scotch man, with that Glasgow accent."

"Are you buying?" Fitz asked. He grinned.

"Barman." Ward turned. "A scotch. Best you have." Ward tossed another couple bills on the bar. Fitz tried not to peek at the denominations. Ward grinned at him and passed the tumbler. Fitz took a speculative sip of the amber liquor. As a rule, he was a beer man. But fuck him if he was going to deter the handsome ones from buying him expensive things.

Across the room, he saw Simmons shoot him a thumbs-up, and gesture at the ladies room. She was going to spend the rest of the party hiding in the loo if he needed her. God, what a woman.

"So." Ward said. "If you don't like parties like this one, what are you doing here? Not that I'm complaining."

"Had to represent the company." Fitz said glumly.

"Oh?"

"I work for Mr. Whitehall." Fitz couldn't help his grimace of distaste. Ward's eyebrows rose.

"You don't look like most of my colleagues."

"What, not another young millionaire?"

"I work for the British Museum." Ward shrugged. He hadn't moved away from Fitz, and the proximity was still making it a wee bit hard to breathe. "We wanted to see if Mr. Whitehall would sell us any of his treasures." He glanced down with a slight laugh. "Somehow, I think anything he has in here is out of what I've got to offer."

"Oh, I don't know." Fitz said, bringing his scotch to his lips again. "I bet there's lots of things in here you could have."

"I hope I don't go back to London completely unsatisfied." Ward said. Fitz glanced around them. He was going back to London. What if Fitz could sneak a message with him, get it to…who, his parents? Scotland Yard? What were they going to do? "What do you do for Mr. Whitehall?"

"I'm an engineer." Fitz couldn't tell him. He wasn't quite selfish enough to drag the handsome innocent historian into this hell.

"You were in charge of construction?" Ward asked.

"Oh, if _only_." Fitz muttered.

"Boss doesn't appreciate you?" Ward asked sympathetically.

"No, he bloody well doesn't." Fitz said. Ward raised his hand to the bartender, and another scotch was put in front of Fitz. Fitz took an aggressive swing, and almost choked. Luckily, Ward's eyes were intent on the beads of liquid at the edge of Fitz's mouth. "He, er."

"He, er?" Ward asked.

"Well he made me attend this bloody party." Fitz said. "And you wouldn't believe the standards, every wire has to be perfectly in place for his idiotic outdated designs. Doesn't even let us pick the colors! There's no element of creative control on the lab end, it's all just do _this_ , do _that_ , make me this make me that, and do we ever get thanks? Not a bloody bit."

"That's awful." Ward shook his head in disgust.

"I get _no_ respect." Fitz grumbled.

"How about the labs?" Ward asked. "Close by?" His eyes smoldered. "You could give me a tour, show me your _private_ office."

Fitz opened and closed his mouth. "Ah. They're locked up for the night." Ward's face fell. It made him look like a mournful Labrador retriever. Fitz wondered absently if sucking his dick would cheer him up. His eyes went automatically to Ward's well-tailored suit pants.

"Damn." Ward breathed. His eyes flickered up past Fitz, to the kitchen doors behind him.

"The black sea lobster is gorgeous." Fitz offered.

"Not really what I'm hungry for." Ward's eyes darkened as Fitz gulped down the last of his scotch. "You sure you couldn't get us into your rooms upstairs?"

"Whitehall's put all his security around the hall." Fitz breathed. "Trust me. You don't want to mess with the boss's security."

"Dammit." Ward's knuckles tightened on his martini. Fitz tried to think coherent thoughts as Ward's eyes crawled over his body. "Dammit. Tell me more about your work, before I do something embarrassing."

"Not much to tell." Fitz said. He seemed to be inching inextricably closer to Ward. "I ah, I do a lot with my hands."

"Fingerwork." Ward's chest rose and fell.

"Oh, you have no idea what I do with my fingers." Fitz said. Ward pressed another scotch on him. "Just spend most of my time making things explode."

"I can imagine." Ward said. His eyes slid to Fitz's pants, then away across the room. He bent his head down, close enough that Fitz could smell his cologne. "You know, there's still the bathroom."

"Right." Fitz downed his drink, slid off the stool, and grabbed at Ward's bow tie. Ward chuckled and put a hand at the base of Fitz's back to steady him. "Just across the hall."

"I know." Ward said. His hand slid down to cup Fitz's arse. They were standing close enough that no one could see. "I've been thinking about getting you alone since I walked in."

"Excellent." Fitz breathed. He reached back to snatch at Ward's crotch. He felt enough there to grab hold. Ward made a muffled sound in his throat and began to shove Fitz through the crowd, using the hand on his arse to direct him.

Ward pushed open the door to the toilets and kicked it closed behind them. He pushed Fitz against the wall by the urinals, not bothering to get them to a stall. Fitz growled and yanked at the buttons of Ward's tuxedo. Ward pushed his hands up and away and began to press hot kisses to Fitz's throat.

"Oy." Fitz panted. "Pants."

"No." Ward muttered. He licked at Fitz's collarbone. "Why did Whitehall want you here at the party?"

"What?" Ward ran his teeth along Fitz's neck. Fitz moaned and tried to grab at Ward's crotch. Ward pushed Fitz's hands against the wall. He had arms like bloody iron bars. "I don't…he likes having us with him. We're the smartest ones."

"I bet you're smart." Ward said, his breath hot. He moved up, _finally_ , to kiss Fitz properly on the mouth. His lips tasted like salt and vermouth, and Fitz kissed hard enough that Ward's grip on his hands loosened. Fitz shoved his hands down Ward's pants, tearing something. He felt cotton under his hands and squeezed. " _Fuck_ —you're sure you can't get to your room?"

"I'd love for you to put your dick in my arse right here." Fitz breathed. Ward groaned and kissed him again. He detached with anther groan and went back to work on Fitz's neck. "I can feel it under there and I know you fucking want to fuck me, get that big cock in me and make me scream, bet this room is soundproof."

Ward squeezed his arse hard enough to make Fitz gasp. "Is everywhere here soundproof?"

"Oh believe it."

"Getting up to some bad experiments in here?"

"Heinous fucking plots." Fitz replied. He tipped his head down, trying to get at Ward's jawline. Ward straightened instead, lifting Fitz into the air. Fitz took the hint and clamped a leg across Ward's back. "You let me down I'll suck your dick."

Ward made an inarticulate noise. "Fuck."

"That's what I've been bloody saying."

"Where's empty?"

"Labs. Board rooms. Storage. All over." Fitz panted. "All the security's diverted to the party. I could get us into anywhere in the science wing with my card. Have to get there though."

"How do you get there?"

"'S up five floors…dunno, there's an elevator, guards." Fitz groaned as Ward's hand slid away from his arse and up between his legs. His hands were calloused in ways that Fitz's previous partners hadn't been. It made a fascinating sensation as Ward began to pump his dick. " _Aah_."

"How do I get there?" Ward growled in his ear.

"Get up the elevator to the fifth floor. Left wing on the westward side by the river. I know which cabinet's got the lubricants in it too. Get me nice and slicked up before you slide in." Fitz began to move his hips. He didn't have the purchase to get a friction. "Get into a bloody stall."

"I have to go." Ward said.

"Eh?" Fitz almost fell as Ward abruptly released him. His legs were too wobbly to keep him braced against the wall. Ward was already turning away. "Where the bloody hell d'you think you're going?"

Ward spun back around and opened his mouth. He stared at Fitz and closed it. "Nice necking with you."

" _Excuse me?_ "

Ward hurried out of the bathroom. Fitz gaped after him.

"Oy! You…" He tried to take a step forward and looked down. Fuck. Fitz glanced around the mercifully still empty bathroom and hopped to a stall. He sat down hard on the toilet and properly undid his pants. That _wanker_ hadn't even slid them down all the way. Fitz grasped his cock and began to take care of the problem at hand. Fuck him but his hands felt weak in comparison to the ones that had just been there.

Fitz tipped back his head and in a blast of righteous fury, pictured NASA's best jet propulsion engineer instead of Grant Ward. But the labcoat kept blending into a well-tailored tuxedo. When Fitz came, covering his hands and mucking up the floor, it was to smoldering brown eyes.

He rebuttoned his pants. At least the arse had fingers clever enough to undo the buttons without ripping anything. Fitz dearly hoped that he'd ruined the man's obviously more expensive pants. He walked to the sinks and looked in the mirror.

Oh, _fuck him_. Almost every inch of pale white skin was marked. Fitz stared at himself, mussed hair, flushed cheeks, and suit barely still on his body. The bathroom door opened, admitting another inordinately handsome guest in an expensive suit. He took one look at Fitz and ducked out of the bathroom, leaving behind a string of barely muffled laughter.

There was no way he could leave the restroom looking like this.

Fitz retreated back into his stall and searched in his pockets for his phone. There was only one contact there. "Jemma?"

"Fitz! I thought you'd be occupied."

"Yeah, let me _tell_ you about how that went." Fitz scowled. "I can't go back to the party."

"What?!"

"I'm…marked." He heard Jemma burst into giggles over the phone. "Stop it!"

"I'm sorry, but really…" Jemma managed to quiet herself.

"This party is ridiculous." Fitz said. "Want to just go back to our rooms?"

"Oh, yes." Jemma said, sounding relieved. "I just overheard two women talking about the most disgusting subjects while they were refreshing their make-up. I know Mr. Whitehall will be angry but…"

"But Mr. Whitehall can stick a test tube up his arse?"

"I was going to say an electron microscope, but same principle." He heard rustling. "I'll meet you in the elevator."

"Yeah…" Fitz reached into his pocket. "Bloody hell."

"What?"

"I dropped my card."

" _Fitz_!"

"It's just not here!" Fitz went through his pockets. He looked on the tiled floor, and then peeked out of the stall at the urinal where he'd been almost debauched. "Shite. I'm stuck here."

"The security man will let you in anyway if you're with me." Jemma said. "He likes me."

"Ugh. Meet you at the door then." Fitz turned his collar up and hurried out of the toilet. The thin strip of black did appallingly little to hide his condition. He was sure he could sense half the lunatics in attendance getting ideas.

Jemma, luckily, was more composed. She was chattering away to the security guard when Fitz snuck up. "Really? Full dental? Why, that's just amazing! Fitz and I have health benefits too, of course, but I haven't checked…and here's Fitz now." Jemma smiled at him.

The guard took one look at Fitz and began to giggle. Fitz glared at him.

"Oh, poor Fitz." Jemma took his arm and raised her arm to tap her pass against the door. The guard didn't stop giggling as he let them through.

Fitz twisted around to glare as the door swished behind them. Outside of the ballroom, the walls were bare stone. The guests had _no idea_. "Wanker."

"Fitz, have you been drinking? Er, more?"

"Yes." Fitz wobbled slightly. "Scotch."

"Oh, dear." Jemma wrapped an arm around him. "Come on. Let's pop into the lab before we go, snatch up a vial of the hangover cure we keep in the fridge for this morning. It should be deserted."

"No, that's fine." Fitz sighed and rubbed at his tousled hair. "I'll go myself, you head off to bed. No sense in both of us getting in trouble with the guards."

"All right." Simmons said. She shot him a fond look as she gave him her card. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Yeah, see you." Fitz rubbed at his mouth again. Still, the taste of vermouth lingered.

* * *

The elevator door opened with a faint hum. Ward poked his head out, checking for guards before stepping out. The scientist had been right. Whitehall had shifted all of his security down, counting on having an unbroken perimeter around his guests. Up here, it was deserted.

Ward crept down the hall. None of the doors were labelled. Experimentally, he took out the scientist's card and tapped it against a lock at random. The door slid open, with the same hum as the elevator. Ward guessed that it was a measure on Whitehall's part to make sure that no one could move around completely soundlessly while not cluing in the people below.

The door beyond was a laboratory. A few test tubes fizzled. Ward didn't recognize whatever chemical process was happening.

He could recognize that this wasn't how you were supposed to authentically restore a castle. He walked on the ball of his feet, trying to stay quiet. Whitehall had stripped the floors and walls to put in the wires necessary for lab equipment, and the hollow space below was prone to echo. In deference to his cover, Ward was offended.

The next two rooms were exactly the same. After the fifth opened, Ward cast a speculative look at the card. Did it open _every_ door?

If so, that scientist was more important than Ward thought. And Ward was wasting his time poking around labs he didn't understand when he should have been finding Whitehall's office.

He began to walk back toward the elevator. A faint hum stopped him. Ward flung himself back, flattening his body against one of the lab doors. The footsteps that came down the hall were slow, and not entirely steady. They didn't sound dangerous.

Ward held his breath. One of the doors hummed opened. He leaned forward to see which one just as it closed.

Intuition made him follow. Any business urgent enough to call someone away from the party downstairs was business he wanted to know about. Ward touched his card to the scanner. The door opened and Ward burst in, wishing he had a gun.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Fitz demanded. Ward stopped in his tracks. Fitz was in front of a fridge, holding a gently smoking vial in one hand and a large mug in the other. Ward rapidly took in the room. No other exits, a half dozen different plastic storage bins, and two industrial style fridges.

"I got lost." Ward lied.

"You…" Fitz stared at him, his hands wringing. He looked like he was going through some sort of existential crisis. "Don't think that I'm not going to rip you a new one later but come on, you've got to get out of here."

Ward's eyebrows raised. "Really."

"You're in danger just being on this floor, let alone this _room_ …" Fitz went past him, peeking out the door. Ward crouched down to examine one of the crates. He took his glasses from his top pocket and put them on. "Hello! Men with guns are on the way!"

"Mhmm." Ward touched the top left corner. The lens focused, showing Ward the picture behind the wood. Ward squinted. There were a lot of packing bubbles for heavy lab equipment. He refocused the lens.

"Oy." Fitz grabbed his shoulder. Ward shook him off. "We need to go _right now_."

"Do you know what's in these?" Ward asked.

"Why do you want to know that?!" Fitz demanded. "These are top level security, why…" Fitz slowly trailed off. "You can't get in here unless you have an access card."

Ward grimaced.

"You stole my card. Oh my god, you _stole_ my card!" Fitz's voice rose in pitch. Ward tapped the right top corner of his glasses to photograph the contents. But there was no way of knowing what the hell it _was_. Dammit, dammit, he should have headed to Whitehall's office instead. But there was still time to play this without breaking cover.

That was when the door opened, and two guards with machine guns entered.

Ward reacted almost without thinking. He was on his feet in an instant and kicking, hard, at the closest one. His shoes were steel toed, and he got the man right on protruding bones of his wrist. It made him howl in pain and drop the gun. Ward hoped to hell the safety was on as he went in for the next strike, his fist burying itself in the soft flesh beneath the guard's chin.

The man went reeling back and Ward went low, slamming his shoulder into the other's chest. It sent him reeling off balance. His elbow went into the diaphragm next. The man doubled over and Ward snapped an arm around his neck, flipping him over to land hard on the floor.

He whirled then and kicked the other guard's feet from under him, before he could get his breath back. He kicked him again, this time in the temple, with the same steel toes. He was out. Ward waited, breathing only a little harder than normal, to see if the other was still conscious.

He wasn't. Ward let a smile curl at the edge of his mouth.

"What the bloody hell." Fitz breathed. He was pressed against the crates, as far back as he was able.

Oh, fuck.

 **A/N: You will pry the "Leo Fitz is dirty and grabby during sex" headcanon from my cold dead hands.**


End file.
